


Fire and Warm Skies

by Colerate



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Fire, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprinting, Imprisonment, Like. A lot of fire. And burning things., M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, a monster imprints on jaskier, but it gets better, doesn't happen to the main cast tho, i mean that in like the baby duck sense who sees a human first thing after getting out of the egg!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colerate/pseuds/Colerate
Summary: When Jaskier was taken prisoner by Nilfgaardian forces, he hadn't expected to leave the whole ordeal behind him with a baby monster in tow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 115
Kudos: 481





	1. You Will Find Him, Deep, Deep Down

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: disclaimer!! The monster is not as super monstery as you may be imagining! I talk more about this in the end notes but I thought I'd put this here a a heads up. It's still monstery just in a different way, is all I will say without spoiling the reveal. 
> 
> Also, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AWgjLDQhZE) is Three Men's Morris.

“Fancy a game of Three Men’s Morris?” Jaskier ventured, his voice disproportionately cheerful but appropriately hoarse, given the circumstances. The words seemed to bounce in six separate directions before reaching his cellmate who was slumped against the opposite wall and was in no fit state for conversation, nevermind a parlour game. 

Despite all of this, Jaskier persisted, shuffling as far as he could towards him. He came up short less than half a metre or so from his limp figure, the ridiculously short chain attached to his foot denying him any further headway. To achieve this feat, he was lay stretched out on his stomach with his elbows propping up his upper-body. 

“Look, I’ll start,” he announced and dragged the stone chip he’d picked off the damp wall across the floor between them, creating the twelve lines that made up the board for a game of Three Men’s Morris. The lines were lines in name only as the bumpy neglected cobble of the floor didn’t lend itself to measured drawings and they all came out a bit wibbly and more than a bit wonky. Once his work was done, he slipped out a further seven stones from his blood-splattered shirt and rubbed four of them on the cobbles until they appeared almost white on one side. “Which colour do you want to be? The choices are prison grime black or badly scuffed white.”

Predictably, his cellmate did not respond and Jaskier proceeded to play a very one-sided game of Three Men’s Morris. 

Jaskier was about to knowingly foil his coming win by deliberately placing his cellmate’s piece in the perfect position to obstruct his own plans when the growing sounds of the marching-and-dragging that heralded the arrival of yet another prisoner started to filter in through the thick walls. It was with a dual sense of morbid curiosity and pity that Jaskier looked away from his game and out through the bars of his cell. On one hand, it was completely awful that someone else had been captured and brought to the same circle of hell that Jaskier had been damned to. On the other hand, Jaskier was in desperate need of someone to talk to and this might just be that someone. 

All hope at the prospect of conversation left Jaskier when he took in the state of the prisoner. Lugged behind two Nilfgaardian soldiers was a woman with long blood-matted hair that dragged along the ground as her head lolled. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he would have thought her deceased. As it happened, Jaskier did, unfortunately, know better. 

“Could you not, I don’t know, bring in a conscious person next time?” Jaskier asked, feigning a casual tone, as the pair of soldiers worked open the door to the cell opposite to him and shoved the poor woman inside. “Dead people aren’t very good at strategy games.”

The pair ignored him and went about their orders, redoing the lock and marching down the short corridor and out of the dungeon, leaving him alone with a passed out man and woman for company. 

From what he had gathered, this particular Nilfgaardian settlement hadn’t really _settled_ enough yet to fulfil the famed horrors and nightmarish rumours that hung around the Nilfgaardian prisons. Talks of human experiments and sacrifices had infiltrated all manner of social circles, perhaps in part due to one particular bard that claimed to have been held captive and then released for singing the most beautiful song. Jaskier hadn’t met the bard, he’d heard the tale in song form from the mouths of other bards, jumping from tongue to tongue like trees in a wildfire in its sudden flaming popularity, but he’d like to ask to study such a beautiful song just to watch the bard splutter as he tried to cover up such obvious falsehoods.

The soldiers here didn’t stop to listen to Jaskier sing. They didn’t stop at all. They were far too busy to entertain notions of torture and rape, which the popular bard had witnessed, always carrying about a harried energy that spoke of time constraints and stress. Jaskier did not doubt the inspiration for the song, he readily believed that an army upheld by the witch Fringilla, who’s name had quickly wound itself into the night terrors of refugees across the nation, would be the exact sort to torture and experiment on their prisoners. These soldiers just had more pressing concerns and Jaskier wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to feel relief or dread at that.

A groan left the woman and she began to sit up which had Jaskier jumping slightly. It was like watching one of those stubborn ghouls that would still rise even with Geralt’s sword pinning it down on graveyard soil. He then followed up his jump with a wince at the reminder of his… _old friend_. The sour taste in his mouth left by three or four days eating mulch and drinking questionable water without access to any means of cleaning himself somehow turned even sourer.

“Oh no…” The woman groaned once she was finally sat up, brushing her bloody hair to the side. Oh good, she didn’t seem nearly as wounded as he had first assumed, it looked like she’d taken a nasty strike to the head and it had bled absolutely everywhere, as those sorts of wounds tended to do. Jaskier had far too much experience with those sorts of wounds than he had any reason to as a bard. 

“Oh no, indeed,” Jaskier responded, trying his best to sound as chipper as an early rising bird filled with love for the morning sun. In reality, he hadn’t seen the sun in several days and had been sporting a headache for just as long. At that, he had a thought, “do you know what day it is?”

“Wednesday,” the woman replied automatically, rolling her head from side to side and groaning some more. She was wearing what would have been a beautiful white dress had it not been muddied and bloodied. A shame really. 

“Huh, I thought it was Monday,” Jaskier murmured and a creeping darkness fell over his thoughts, prompting him to quickly switch topics. “So, how does a fine woman such as yourself end up in a place like this?” He asked and silently cursed the too-loud abruptness of his voice as it surged in time with the pounding of his headache. 

“My father is the alderman of this town,” she explained without fussing over his clumsy flirtatious tone, probably in too much pain to bother, and Jaskier could hear the money behind her name as she spoke. He was right in thinking that the dress was expensive. “They took me when he said… when he said he wouldn’t play host for his country’s enemy.” 

Ah, that made sense. The town they were in was a few days or so travel from newly claimed Nilfgaardian territory and it was big enough to warrant protection from being completely pillaged. Jaskier had seen what happened to small villages, they were overrun and burnt to the ground. Towns, Jaskier imagined, were more useful while their economies still functioned. Which was precisely why Jaskier hadn’t realised he was wandering into Nilfgaardian territory until he saw the soldiers themselves, made the poor decision of running for his life in the opposite direction and therefore labelling himself as a suspicious individual and landed himself in prison on the grounds of… Well. He didn’t actually know. He’d been unconscious for the trial, if there had even been one. 

According to the newly popular bard’s song, the Nilfgaardians imprisoned folk at will with nary a care for their innocence. The goal was simply to fill cells, apparently. Accumulating fodder for whatever schemes they had cooking up at headquarters. The bard had been promised release if he joined the force, which he had, of course, valiantly denied. He’d also been promised release if he willing participated in experiments, if he joined the royal court, if he gave his body to the warden, all sorts of promises. There was a whole verse dedicated to the rejected promises. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the alderman’s daughter’s imprisonment made sense and Jaskier had actually seen a wanted poster with his name on it although he wasn’t sure that was why he’d been detained. The poster did not depict his face, no, that space had been taken up by a hilariously inaccurate caricature of Geralt’s face and then a picture of who he presumed was Princess Cirilla. His name was under a list of related individuals alongside the name of a dwarf he remembered from the dreaded mountain affair and a number of people he did not recognise. 

No, Jaskier was fairly certain he had simply been imprisoned for making a scene upon sighting black armour. Which he should have expected, being this far down south. But it was winter and it was warmer the further south one went, so he could hardly be blamed for his lack of caution. These (now tattered) silks were not made for snow. 

“They’re up to something,” the woman continued when Jaskier didn’t respond. “Father said so, even before they took over, we’re out of the way and they took fewer soldiers than most would be comfortable with to take over a town of our size,” she started to slur towards the end and her head dipped forward slightly before flicking back up, as though she’d almost fallen asleep while sat up.

“When are they not up to something?” Jaskier tried to joke but it came out flat. Hunger was starting to catch up on him and he wasn’t sure when he’d next eat, his working timetable had been completely thrown off by the knowledge that he was two days behind. Not that it mattered, as the woman seemed to be losing lucidity, her body wavering to an invisible breeze. 

“Is he dead?” She asked, throwing a limp hand towards Jaskier’s cellmate that fell against the floor as quickly as it had risen. Jaskier made a show of being unable to reach the man’s pulse points but his theatrics were wasted on her as she fell forwards and smacked her head against the cobble. 

“Are _you_ dead?” Jaskier mimicked her tone with a hint of added hysteria. Oh, Melitele, what had he gotten himself into? He’d been doing okay, for a little while there. His last bout of panic had subsided sometime before he began his little game of Three Men’s Morris but now its insidious tendrils were gripping onto the edges of his thoughts and dragging him down under. He needed a distraction, now. 

Before he could begin to search for one, a distraction was provided for him. The sounds of yet another prisoner being dragged along stone bounced from down the corridor followed by the heavy clunking of the dungeon door opening. This prisoner was not unconscious, in fact, he was screaming bloody murder all the way down to his cell until one of the soldiers whacked him solidly in the temple with the handle of his sword. He was easily shoved into the woman’s cell after that. 

Sighing dramatically, Jaskier resigned himself to a futile search for a creative distraction from his own damn mind as he concluded that this new prisoner was going to be no more entertaining than the rest of them. Perhaps he could compose a song? He’d already thought up several verses about the rusted bars alone during his time here. Maybe he could write a song to rival the other bard’s captivity melody. Of course, there would be no writing involved, unless he wanted to painstakingly etch out the lyrics on the walls with a stone which he knew to be a fruitless endeavour from his awful board of Three Men’s-

A third set of hasty fortified boots entered the dungeon and a young man who looked to be barely the age Jaskier had been when he’d left Oxenfurt came to a stop in front of the two guards, panting with his hands on his thighs. “Got orders,” he huffed between breaths, “got orders to bring up one of the prisoners.”

“For what?” Jaskier asked, expecting to be ignored. Instead, all three pairs of eyes turned on him. Usually, Jaskier quite liked to be the centre of attention but the context soured the feeling. It appeared that he had unknowingly volunteered himself for whatever it was that required a prisoner up top. With this realisation dawning on him, he began to shuffle cautiously backwards which turned into an all-out mad scramble to get away from the guards as they entered the cell, unlocked his chain and dragged him out. 

“Come now,” Jaskier squeaked as the two original soldiers took one of his arms each. “There’s no need for this manhandling, I’m not so weak that I can’t walk, I’ve done plenty of travelling in my time,” he rambled but, when he did get his feet under him, he found that he actually couldn’t walk. Or at least not well enough to keep up with the fast pace of the soldiers. 

To the rhythm of metal soles against stone flooring and stairs, he was dragged from the dungeon and into the light of midday. Having spent so long underground, the weak winter sunshine stung his eyes and forced them to flutter shut, completely missing his long-awaited view of the outside world and only allowing him to reopen them once he was inside another building. 

Not building. Cave. Gods, Jaskier was having the single worst stay at an enemy camp of his entire life. Granted, he hadn’t been a prisoner of war before and he was fairly certain many were simply left to rot while he’d at least been fed and untouched until now. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Jaskier liked to lament on the misfortune of his life because it didn’t matter if it could have been worse when things were already bad enough.

At the very least, the cave was less damp than the cells and didn’t smell of vomit, piss and blood. Correction: Jaskier could smell blood. Old blood. The sort of blood that he only knew to recognise from repeat encounters and had him oddly nostalgic for times when things had been better. Times when Jaskier wasn’t a prisoner of war, when he hadn’t been aimlessly wandering in search of inspiration that never struck, when he hadn’t been nursing a heartbreak that then subsequently mended itself with shoddy stitches and harsh cauterizations that left it a stuttering imitation of its former, red-blooded, strong-beating self. 

“What was living here before you got here?” He asked in an effort to shift his focus away from how terrible his life was even before he’d been taken captive. There were more soldiers inside the cave, marching in and out with the same harried quality that the soldiers attached to his arms exhibited. The young soldier was just ahead, leading them further into a surprisingly well lit cavernous space.

In the middle of the commotion was a suspiciously magic-y looking painted out circle with four soldiers standing on the outer points of the diagram and a figure shrouded in a black cloak at the head. He didn’t ponder too long on why the lines were deep red in colour. But the main attraction of the entire stomach-turning display was what lay at the very centre, an egg. 

A dragon egg.

“Was there- Did you- Oh my Lord, you killed a dragon, didn’t you?” Words tumbled out of his mouth, rising in velocity and pitch in tandem the more he spoke. He was ignored as he carried on, “... You killed a dragon, a dragon! A fucking Dragon!” He knew his thoughts were growing nonsensical, knew that it wasn’t really the dragon part of the situation that his brain was trying to latch onto but more so the fact that it looked like he was going to become one of those human sacrifices from that bard’s song, but it all melded together into one useless jumble of sharp breaths and useless words. “A - a dragon!”

As they drew closer, he frantically searched for any signs of the dragon and came up with very little. Although, he did see bird feathers and noticed that the dragon egg was sitting in a nest that was much too small for it. Oh, there was a bird, too. A burnt bird. Sat on top of the egg. So burnt it was practically ashes and he hadn’t noticed it until now. There was a song, one that wasn’t his nor about Nilfgaard, nudging at the back of his mind but he couldn’t focus on it with everything else going on around him. 

“Put him inside,” the cloaked figure said and Jaskier yelped as he was thrown into the magic circle, right in front of the soot-stained red dragon egg. He didn’t care for the way his arm crunched beneath his body as he started to back away, once again scrambling to get himself out of whatever he’d gotten himself into. But the cloaked figure clapped and the outer lines of the circle were set alight, a faintly blue barrier rising around him that didn’t budge as his back hit it. 

“I think I at least deserve to know what the hell your goals are before I die for them!” He shouted, the anger in his voice surprising him as it pushed aside the panic by a small margin. However, his body betrayed his self-righteous tone, wracked with tremors and still trying desperately to push back through the barrier. 

“It will be hungry when it wakes,” the cloaked figure said, the first person to speak to him aside from the alderman’s daughter in an entire week. Possibly more than that since he hadn't really spoken to the Nilfgaardians who had initially captured him and this town had been his first stop after a longer than average period of travelling in futile search of inspiring natural wonder. He wished those weren’t the first words directed at him after all of that. 

On cue, the egg began to crack and the entire room hushed. The soldier’s stopped their rushed marching, attention focused solely on the egg. This was most certainly what the alderman had been talking about when his daughter had quoted him. This was the something that the Nilfgaardians were up to. 

The cracks furthered and Jaskier couldn’t tear his eyes from their progress, staring in abject horror as his demise crept closer and closer at an alarming speed. Baby dragons… they were small. But they were still dragons. And Jaskier was trapped inside a magical barrier with one. 

A glow seeped out from the cracks as they covered the entire shell, small pieces coming apart to reveal a white-hot flaming centre. An absent thought that perhaps this was the inspiration that Jaskier had been searching for slipped through his mind as more of it fell apart, revealing a glowing star destined to live heavenward yet earthbound by malicious mages with eyes only for the furthering of their powers. 

A little head popped out at the top, a little bit of egg shell on its crown like a silly little hat, and Jaskier frowned a little because it didn’t look much like a dragon. 

The starlight faded and his surroundings seemed dull in comparison. The little fellow fell forwards in its egg and the shell more or less shattered, some of the gooey glowing insides sticking to its body as it waddled forward, innocent curiosity dancing in its glossy amber eyes. “Krrp,” it chirped and Jaskier reared his head back slightly in confusion. 

“That’s not a dragon…” he said slowly and addressed the soldiers around him and the mage, speaking with careful annunciation and a heavy pinch of condescension, “... that,” he pointed at the baby, “is a _bird_.”

“Yes,” the mage confirmed, sounding just as creepy as before and no less enthusiastic. Like this was exactly the outcome she had been seeking all along. 

“Krrp,” the baby bird chirped again and took a few more clumsy steps towards Jaskier. With each advancement the little creature made, he could feel the anticipation in the room rise as though the soldiers were drawing closer even though they remained still. If he was honest, the bird was on the larger side, most common birds grew to this size as adults. But he could hardly drum up any of his previous fear when it was still coated in its own albumen and eyeing him like he was the single most interesting thing on the continent. To be fair to the bird, Jaskier was the first thing that it had ever seen, so it wasn’t that hard of a title to claim. 

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jaskier decided to make the best of a bizarre situation and gently brought a relaxed hand towards its face, ready to draw back at a moment's notice. “Hello,” he cooed, his voice still shaking from the adrenaline high he’d only just come down from. “You’re a cute little thing, aren’t you?”

The bird chirped some more and eyed his hand before knocking its head against it. Jaskier took this as a positive sign and proceeded to give the little guy a gentle ruffle, which it trilled at. 

Previous caution thrown to the wind, the bird jumped at him and Jaskier would have fallen if it weren’t for the barrier holding him up. Arms splayed wide and unprepared, Jaskier’s breath quickened as the little creature made itself comfortable in his lap. Slowly, he brought down his arms from where he’d thrown them up and gently stroked the bird’s neck. It was very warm and the stickiness was quickly leaving its feathers as though the albumen was evaporating. 

“Something has gone wrong,” a gruff voice said behind him and both he and the bird swivelled their necks to see that it belonged to the soldier that was standing at Jaskier’s back on the other side of the barrier. Their eyes didn’t meet, the soldier’s attention was on the cloaked mage. 

“It can’t have, we did everything right,” the mage said irritatedly, “perhaps it is just not hungry yet.”

From the way the bird was beginning to peck lightly on his fingers, Jaskier didn’t think so. He wasn’t worried, though, it felt more like it was trying to tell him its needs weren’t being met rather than that it was sampling the menu. “Perhaps it’s a fucking bird, not a dragon,” Jaskier snapped. The week of imprisonment, the sure thought that death was imminent, the dismissal of such death, the absurdity of his current situation… it was wearing his patience thin. 

“Put it in the cage,” the soldier behind him said, keeping to the apparent don’t-talk-to-the-prisoner rule. He’d wager that it was actually worse to be treated like he didn’t exist than for them to punish his outspoken personality. Especially since he didn’t take very well to being ignored on a regular day, something which had grated on him ever since what had happened two years ago had happened and he’d been hyper-aware of his presence on other people’s minds and his perceived worth. 

Four soldiers carrying a sturdy iron gilded cage approached. So, they really had been expecting a bird, Jaskier realised. His raised brows rose even further in surprise as the barrier dropped and he fell backwards, the bird squawking in alarm but quickly adjusting to the new dynamic, curling up on his chest. 

Not wanting to risk losing his eyes to the bird because, well, it was a wild newborn bird and he had no experience dealing with any sort of bird, he did not get up. Also, the bird was a little more weighty than expected and was moderately shortening his breath. It was almost a relief to be rid of it when the soldiers set down the large cage and took the bird from him, but the immediate panic in the bird’s eyes and its squarks set off something in his hind brain that urged him to grab onto it before they could take it away.

The bird was obviously terrified, squawking and flapping uselessly while two opposing forces were pulling it apart. Jaskier was terrified for _it_ , not quite squawking but unchecked protests were definitely leaving his mouth and he was jostling about a bit. His focus was entirely on the baby and getting it back because these men quite clearly didn’t have anything good in store for it!

“Oh, just kill him if he’s that much trouble,” the gruff soldier from before said and Jaskier absently noted that he was probably in charge. Less absently, he noted that one of the soldiers without a handful of a bird was unsheathing his sword and striding towards him. 

Letting go of the bird, Jaskier found himself scrambling back for the third time in the last hour alone, but he knew he wasn’t fast enough. He hadn’t been fast enough the first time and he hadn’t been fast enough the second time. Beneath his whimsical dreams and romantic ideals, he liked to think himself a man of logic. He’d ignored such sure tried and tested signs like these before and he’d only gotten hurt when he continued to believe that perhaps there was hope to be had yet. He wasn’t fast enough before. He wouldn’t be fast enough now. He wasn’t appreciated then, he wouldn’t be appreciated now.

Oh, for his mind to wander to the mistake he’d made following Geralt as the white-hot pain of a blade slipped between the very first layers of flesh between his ribs. If Jaskier were the writer of this story, the hero would come crashing in now and save him. But he’d found that life very rarely followed the ornate paths that narratives laid out. Life was arbitrary and cruel and arbitrary in its cruelty. He’d have to find a way to haunt a bard so he could instruct them very carefully on how to spin this particular tale, it couldn’t be told like this. Dying in a no-name town, a randomly selected sacrifice of no importance, set to the backdrop of a frantically squawking baby bird and the dull thuds of soldier’s boots. 

Bright white-hot light encompassed his vision completely. All sensations abandoned to the blank expanse. 

Death, it had taken him. 

Screaming exploded into the atmosphere and the sharp smell of burning flesh flushed into his nose. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He was in hell! Wasn’t he? What had he done to warrant a place in hell?!

Huffing breath into his lungs yet feeling as though he was going to suffocate, he was going to be sick. He buckled over forwards, already on the ground as he was, and ejected his stomach onto the hot rocky ground. The priests were right, hell was everything they had envisioned. A cavernous space filled with flames and burning sinners. 

The screaming had died down. And he wasn’t burning. The white that had bleached his vision began to fade away and his surroundings were oddly familiar. There were still bright spots, the consequences of having seen such a bright light, and his eyes really fucking hurt, but he could quite confidently say that he was exactly where he had been a minute ago and not, in fact, in hell.

Just all the soldiers were gone and in their places were piles of ashes, bones and melted clumps of what he imagined were once armour. The combined mess produced one of the strangest aromas that he’d ever smelt before and had his empty stomach flipping in an effort to vomit again despite the fact that he’d just emptied what little that had been in there onto his shirt and the ground before him.

“Krrp?” the bird chirped and Jaskier swivelled around to find it unharmed and sat among a cluster of ashes-and-what-not that once amounted to maybe four whole human beings, shaking its whole body to get the ashes off of it in a very cute manner that had Jaskier cooing. 

“Awww, you poor thing, you’ve got dead people in your feathers,” Jaskier said, hysteria dancing lightly on his words, and reached out towards it. The bird responded by jumping into his chest and successfully knocking him over this time. 

“Krrp,” the bird responded and snuggled against his chest, settling down again.

That song, the one that had been nagging at him when he’d spied the charred bird on the egg, it tugged at his mind again. Alone now and knackered from the complete insanity that had been his day so far, he was able to focus on it, humming the melody until the words came along, one hand absently running through the scraggly feathers of the bird. 

_“In life there is death,  
And now in death, there is life,  
When the dragon lets go its breath,  
And the fires are rife,  
You will find him, deep, deep, down,  
Far beneath the ground,  
He rises to worldly fame,  
A piece of hell now earthbound,  
And he knows only of evil aims,  
Raróg, the Zerrikanian deity of flames.”_

He trailed off towards the end of the little poem, his hands stilling where they were stroking the bird. Just as the bird looked like it was about to go to sleep, its body heat surged and it coughed out a small flame. Oh.

Oh _shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's not like a monstrous monster. yah know, originally I was just gonna like. make the monster a drowner or smth. but then i typed 'bird' into the witcher wiki and got [this](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Rar%C3%B3g). Maybe i'll do another fic and its just like. a fuckin ghoul. whos just like. 'Jas, ur my mum now.' and jas is like 'wtf wtf u stink oml no no no' but then ~~friendship~~ fatherhood is magic :)))))) (that's definitely one for the crack treated seriously tag)
> 
> Your thoughts are super appreciated in the comments! Thx for reading, hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> here's my [fic tumblr](https://colerate.tumblr.com/) if u wanna know whats going on and that.


	2. Transcendentally Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rarog:** [*Looks like this*](https://www.deviantart.com/picoloro123/art/Baby-phoenix-arising-from-its-ashes-379995921)  
>  **Jaskier:** I've never seen anything more inexplicably adorable in my whole life _and_ I've seen a baby vodyanoi 
> 
> aka: Jas and Rara's teeny adventure post-near-death-experience in the village where it happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shocking response from y'all with the first chapter!! 197 kudos off the first chapter, that's mad bro. Not to mention the lovely comments as well. Thank you <3333333

The bird - Raróg, fucking _Raróg_ , the Zerrikanian _deity of flames_ \- performed the avian equivalent of a grumble as Jaskier shifted, attempting to sit up and hopefully, eventually, leave the cave of ashes and ill-thought-out evil schemes. It then squawked and flapped its barely-feathered wings in alarm as it slipped down his chest and landed in a pile on Jaskier’s lap. Although it seemed, despite what Raróg’s not-so-mythical-as-previously-thought history may suggest, it was quite agreeable and adaptable to the changes in its life, content to simply make itself home on Jaskier with no particular preference for which _part_ of Jaskier home may be.

“Right then…” Jaskier said, his hands hovering over the bird until he gathered the courage to grip it by the body. Bad decision. Raróg did not appreciate it, hissing and squirming until Jaskier was forced to yelp and let go. Again, it made itself comfortable on his lap, tucking its head into its back with closed eyes.

Vague memories of having seen an owl handler perform at an Oxenfurt function many, many years ago coming to mind, he took a different approach and nudged its feet with his fingers. Blinking its eyes open, Raróg investigated the fingers that had disturbed it, connected them to Jaskier’s presence and clutched its talons around his forefinger. Keen eyes not leaving the bird, Jaskier slowly got up with the measured movements of a royal servant carrying a pitcher that was full to the brim and was fearful of spilling even a drop.

This combination of small footsteps, a hunched back and singularly focused eyes saw him complete three paces before he tripped on a rock, pinwheeled his empty arm and tried his best not to shake his occupied finger while regaining his balance. Throughout this whole display, Raróg did not show any indication that it was ruffled by the turbulence and maintained its balance near flawlessly.

Baby birds, Jaskier reckoned, were not meant to be this in tune with their body immediately after birth. But this wasn’t any baby bird. So Jaskier supposed that there had to be exceptions for exceptional circumstances.

“... Are you Raróg?” He ventured, bringing the bird close to his face so that he could have a good squint at it. It looked like any other baby bird, a little adorable bundle of pink flesh with a smattering of cute little scraggly feathers flecked with ash and soot, complimented by mesmerizing rings of amber encircling dark pupils that could have been mistaken for gems. “You know, deity of fire and warm skies, hell incarnate, desolator of the Great Korath Desert? Pulling any bells?”

Raróg chirped and cocked its head to the side, staring deep into Jaskier’s eyes for an uncomfortably long moment. It chirped again, happy, and launched itself off of Jaskier’s finger and onto his chest, digging barely developed talons into his shirt and dragging itself up onto his shoulder. Jaskier froze and didn’t relax until he heard content chirping by his ear as Raróg settled down next to his neck. Prickly flesh tickled Jaskier’s pulse point and he couldn’t say he was completely relaxed with a potential demon hitching a ride on his shoulder, but he felt confident enough to make his way across the ashen ground and towards the cave entrance in a regular manner.

Nevermind. Demon that this chick may be, Jaskier needed to see someone about his wounds and his hunger and his hydration and his everything. Sucking in a harsh breath, he palmed the area that the sword had plunged into and his hand came away with dry blood. Okay. So, perhaps the damage wasn’t as extensive as he had thought. He didn’t dare look at the wound, if it was bad, then seeing how bad it was would trigger his body to remember that he was hurt and the dull ache he was feeling would transform into something unbearable. Best he left that to a healer, whenever he found one of those.

Raróg had done a number on the place, the walls were black and the colour came away onto his skin when he trailed his fingers along the craggy surface. Light cast itself down the tunnel entrance from the outside, a warm orange that told of the setting sun. As he drew closer to his freedom, the sounds of murmured talking and curious chatter grew louder until the source was revealed and everything went quiet.

A small crowd of the townsfolk had gathered at the entrance of the cave, drawn out by the fire that Raróg had caused, no doubt, wondering what had transpired. They quieted when Jaskier emerged, although there were still a few whispered conversations.

Right. This was awkward. He couldn’t exactly say ‘Oh, no need to worry about your Nilfgaardian infestation problem anymore! We summoned a legendary demon from hell and killed the lot of them!’ and expect no negative consequences. Depending on the town’s inclinations towards religion and such, he could get burned at the stake for heresy, or perhaps murdered for inciting the coming of the end times. Jaskier did hope that he hadn’t incited the coming of the end times. The current times were not exactly what one would call good times but they were certainly a step up from nothing at all.

“Hello!” He smiled and waved stiltedly before clasping his hand in front of him, racking his brain for some sort of explanation while his over-the-top cheery facade threatened to splinter and break. “You’re probably wondering about what happened in the cave, huh,” he said and garnered a few wary nods and verbal affirmations.

“Well,” he continued and spread his arms aside, wiggling his fingers in a celebratory display[[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)], “they’re dead now! Yay!”

Confusion erupted into the crowd as they demanded to know what had happened, talking amongst themselves and shouting towards Jaskier, loud enough to wake Raróg from where it had fallen asleep against his neck. Raróg then joined in the noise, making little chattering chirps directly into his ear. His strained smile slipped into a grimace as he readied himself to try and placate the crowd, but he didn’t need to.

Two Nilfgaardian soldiers jogged onto the scene, the ruckus their clanking armour and swords made grabbing the attention of those nearest. Like ripples in a pond, the crowd noticed the intrusion and all eyes were turned to the newcomers. “Did you just say that those soldiers are all dead?” The taller one scoffed, his accent thick, “us two are the only soldiers who aren’t inside of that cave, you can’t have taken out an entire fleet by yourself.”

“I didn’t,” Jaskier confirmed and his face lit up as the perfect excuse presented itself to him just in the nick of time, “the mage did, whatever she was doing in there backfired and turned the lot of them to dust!” He finished with a triumphant flourish and the vigour that took over the crowd at the news was palpable. “Take a look for yourself!”

“Stay here, Jedwa,” the taller soldier said to his companion and strode forwards, addressing Jaskier and the crowd, “I’ll alert the commander of your foolishness and we’ll strike all of you where you stand,” he threatened with a cocky smirk, shoving past the townsfolk and disappearing into the cave.

For a while, no one spoke, until the silence was broken by a nervous woman in barmaid attire, “we should go, I don’t want to die,” her voice warbled with fear and she started to back away, but the second soldier slid out his sword and held it behind her shoulders like an unnecessarily sharp fence.

The soldier looked like he was about to launch into a tirade about the consequences for deserting and how all that had mocked the ruling Nilfgaardian forces would meet their deserved ends or something else typically dire. However, before he could get the first derisive word out of his mouth, the taller soldier stumbled out of the cave and collapsed to the floor, ashes spilling out of his hands.

“He…” the man breathed, head turned down and tracking his palms as he slowly held them up to the sky, ashes falling away and drifting in the wind like ill-begotten glitter. “... Gryfina, she must have, she,” his hands fell limp on the ground, the last of the ash jumping from his gauntlets upon impact, “they’re dead.”

The damning announcement was followed by a deep, poignant silence that reminded him of how the water on the Kerraki shore would slink away before a large wave came crashing against the coastline. Just like the stormy waters of his childhood, the silence soon was relinquished and the townsfolk submerged the remaining Nilfgaardians, physically tearing apart the remnants of their short-lived rule.

Excited by the violent display, Raróg picked up its chattering with greater enthusiasm and Jaskier could feel its talons as it shuffled on his shoulder, rearing its head far enough forwards for it to be visible in Jaskier’s peripheral. Of course, a demon of war would love a good old bit of bloody murder, wouldn’t it? Oh, Melitele, Jaskier was in trouble. But he’d already known that, hadn’t he? He’d been in trouble for a good solid week now. He practically lived and breathed it.

Taking advantage of the convenient distraction, Jaskier slipped away from the mob. At first, he was directionless, simply wanting to put as much distance between the bloodshed and the demon on his shoulder as possible, but then he spied a menacing-looking stone building on the outskirts of the town and altered course. The walls were practically permeated with sorrow and it wasn’t that far from the cave, so he assumed it must have been the dungeon he’d been kept in. 

Neither having to deal with being unceremoniously dragged across the flagstones by soldiers nor being unconscious this time, he was able to take in the architecture and contents of the building. ‘Neglected’ was the first descriptor to come to mind as he pushed his way through the rotten wooden oak doors and took his first steps inside, closely followed by ‘disused’ and ‘old’. Judging by the dated architecture and style, he would bet that the prison had been here before the current version of the town had been founded. A reminder of whatever small pieces of civilization had claimed this land before this community had built its houses and stores.

There was probably a smaller building for housing stray bandits and foolish youngsters somewhere more accessible within the town, perhaps a cell or two beneath the town hall or something that fulfilled the needs of an out-of-the-way place like this. Sure, the town was no village, but it wasn’t exactly bustling with criminal activity. He knew that from the character of the prisoners who had been detained by the Nilfgaardians, namely himself and the alderman’s daughter. As for the others, he could ask after their misdeeds when he reached them.

The old dungeons served the Nilfgaardians’ purposes quite well, as the first corridor that Jaskier went down didn’t lead to his cell but rather a whole separate block of cells that he hadn’t known had existed. The prisoners here were a much more lively bunch than his company had been and he pouted at the thought that he’d missed out.

“Krrp?” Raróg said inquisitively and Jaskier flinched, having completely forgotten that the adorable little cretin was on his shoulder. At some point, the excitement from the crowd had faded and the demon had settled down but the sounds of indistinct conversation must have roused it. “Krrp?” It repeated in response to the small jostle and then let out a succession of happy noises as Jaskier gave it his finger to perch on.

“Through that door,” he pointed at the rusted iron door at the end of the corridor, “are victims of Nilfgaardian cruelty, imprisoned on completely unjust grounds, just as I was,” he explained and Raróg went quiet as he spoke, watching him intently. “Ah, I should probably tell you a little bit about the situation we’ve found ourselves in, shouldn't I? You hadn’t even been born when this all began, isn’t that a funny thought?”

Raróg chirped as though to say that yes, Jaskier, that is a tickling little tidbit of a thought, I quite agree. Demon or no, Jaskier was not immune to such endearing mannerisms. He gave the little fellow a scritch under the chin, “oh, oh, oh, aren’t you just the cutest little devil to walk this continent? Yes you are,” he cooed and it was more than worth the little purring sound that he got in response. “Oh, you are faaaar too adorable than a demon has any right to be,” he muttered and pushed through to the prison block.

At first, the prisoners didn’t notice his arrival as a skinny man was currently all but throwing himself against the bars in an attempt to reach a much larger man in the cell opposite to him and he did not seem to be doing so in order to embrace him but rather tear him limb from limb. His face was a picture of rage while his target looked as though he could have been sunning himself on the coast with his relaxed posture and calm gaze.

“-you spineless fat pig, I’ll get you for that, I will! Just you wait until I break through these bars I swear on Melitele’s goddamned tits that I’ll-”

Jaskier was quick to let the man’s wrathful monologue filter into the background, his selective hearing a skill honed from his three years of sharing living space with other Oxenfurt students long ago, turning to the girl in the cell closest to him. Perhaps he wasn’t so unlucky with his deficit of conversation on his side of the prison after all, he preferred silence to screaming.

The girl was very young and hadn’t noticed Jaskier’s entrance, humming weakly to a song that he vaguely recognised but couldn’t readily name. If he had to guess, he’d say she was maybe fifteen years old, but it was always hard to tell at that age. “Hello,” he said and crouched down, “I don’t suppose you know where they keep the keys?”

The girl looked up, her mousy brown hair falling away from her face as she did, and her eyes sparked as she realised he wasn’t a soldier. “Oh, oh, are you going to get us out of here?” She whispered excitedly and then frowned concernedly. “Are you alright, mister? You’re covered in blood and you’re very dirty.”

“As are you,” he huffed, and then amended, “well, perhaps you are less bloody - but just as dirty!” Raróg seemed to take note of his attitude and copied his indignant huff, which brought the attention of the girl to the bird where it was perched on his finger.

Her eyes went wide and then she frowned again, “I don’t think chicks are supposed to be away from their parents at that age.”

“This one doesn’t have any,” he said and she nodded solemnly in understanding, “now, cell keys?”

The girl did happen to know where the cell keys were, she’d been one of the first prisoners to be taken. Her sister had insulted one of the soldiers when they’d stormed into their family bakery and she’d offered herself up in her place and the Nilfgaardians had accepted the bribe. It was unknown how long she’d been kept there but Jaskier hoped it wasn’t much longer than he had been, she’d said it had been winter when she’d been taken and it was still winter at least. What mattered was that she’d been conscious when they’d detained her and she had a keen memory.

With Raróg chattering happily to itself, Jaskier made his way towards the lone room at the very far end of the building, oddly growing accustomed to walking with his hand ahead of him adjusted for the weight of an adult-sized baby bird. The little inordinate sounds it made echoed which Raróg seemed to like, trilling when the occasional sound bounced loudly from wall to wall. Jaskier guessed that it was testing out its vocal cords, finding new things that it could with its voice. A lot of it was off-key and grating on the ears, but it hadn’t had much practice yet. If the little devil didn’t improve, Jaskier could always teach it. He’d taught the likes of prissy noble sons and daughters at Oxenfurt, he could stand to guide a bird through a song or two.

Oh, it sounded as though he was planning to have the bird with him for some time. That couldn’t do. Deceptive as its looks were, the thing was a damn spawn of hell.

On a metal hook within the little ransacked office at the end of the corridor, he found the keys and promptly returned to the girl, paying no mind to the smell of wood rot and decay that held fast to the room and tried to latch onto the rags of his clothes. Nevermind, he’d be ditching these clothes the second he got his hands on some replacements, provided that he found his coins and lute first. The fabric could be salvaged at least, he’d turned around some coin with worse.

Asking the girl where his possessions might be lead him to returning to the office while she trailed behind him, clutching onto a clump of threads that had been pulled from his shirt at some point during his stay. The shouting man and the relaxed man still hadn’t noticed him or had chosen to ignore him so he’d decided to deal with them after procuring his lute.

When they entered the room, the girl pulled him towards the crooked chest at the very back, tugging on the threads to the point that they created several lines where the cotton in his shirt parted, running from his hip to a point that was dangerously close to his nipple. By the Gods, he couldn’t wait to be out of it and into something that didn’t threaten to fly away with the slightest breeze. 

Inside the chest were his lute and his coin pouch, although the latter had been emptied, as he should have expected. Damn. The girl was even less fortunate, as she’d had her mother’s silver chain taken from her and it was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck’s sake,” the girl swore, surprising Jaskier as well as Raróg who’d been trying to bite at her hair for the better part of the last fifteen minutes and had to rear back as she threw her arms up in frustration. “Fucking Nilfgaardians,” she added for good measure.

“Fucking Nilfgaardians,” Jaskier agreed, turning his money pouch upside down on the off chance that a penny might have been hiding in the folds. There was no penny. “Come on, then, let’s release Mr Shouty and his much too calm friend.”

Jaskier nearly threw Raróg when they unlocked the cells for Mr Shouty and His Friend, staggering back as the former immediately descended on the latter. Again, this display seemed to excite Raróg so Jaskier vacated the scene at the earliest opportunity, dragging the girl with him. 

“Take care, alright?” He called after her once she had detached herself from his shirt and set off in the direction of the exit.

“Take care of the chick,” she called back and rounded the corner, leaving his view. Raróg then chirped after her, as if to say goodbye.

“If it weren’t for the fact that I just witnessed you dancing and singing at the sight of a brawl, I’d think you were a nice little kind bird,” he muttered and absently petted Raróg as he mentally mapped out the path to his original cell and set course to release the Alderman’s daughter, her cellmate and his favourite Three Men’s Morris partner.

* * *

Being the one to return the Alderman’s daughter (and, less intentionally, her bodyguard-stroke-servant who just so happened to be the man they’d dragged in raging after her) came with several benefits such as free drinks, a chance to wash up and other such luxuries. Benefits which he’d usually take the time to soak and bask in like a bath filled with costly salts, but there was a slight complication. For once, Jaskier was not looking to be the centre of attention.

“It’s brave what you did, sorting out those prisoners like that before the alderman even gave the order,” the bar and innkeeper said. Her name was Agatha and she had a captivating scar that twisted her mouth when she smiled. “I’ll give you a couple nights stay, free of charge, you need a good bed after what you’ve been through, same offer goes for the others if you have the chance to talk to them, your little birdie too.”

Seemingly noting that it had been mentioned, Raróg perked up from where it had been dozing in Jaskier’s cupped hands. His hands weren’t small, but they were barely large enough to make a bed for Raróg so he hoped this wasn’t a habit in the midst of forming.

“Bit of an ugly fellow, isn’t he?” Agatha said offhandedly, idly swilling her rag in the basin behind her before returning to wiping a tankard she picked up off the wooden counter. “What with the eyes and the pimpled skin and that,” she continued, gesturing at the features with the rag as she pointed them out, and Jaskier couldn’t quite convince himself of what he was hearing, “big but there’s nothing to him.”

“I beg your pardon?” He looked between Agatha and Raróg, earnestly trying to reconcile her horrid depictions with the chick he cradled. Raróg’s budding feathers told a story of what was to come, the brilliant red that contrasted against the black that dotted its pink skin foreshadowed the fierce devilish fires it hid within. Raróg was a deity for Melitele’s sake, at the very least a firebird (which supposedly didn’t exist, might he add!), and any storyteller worthy of their words knew there were two appearances that deities could take. Transcendentally beautiful or transcendentally hideous. Raróg was certainly not the latter so it had no choice but to grow into the former. Otherwise, it would ruin the thematics of the lyrics Jaskier was going to write about it once this was all over. Whatever this was.

“Well, you know,” Agatha shrugged, “looks like his mother took one look at his pickled skin and chucked him out of the nest head first, he’s lucky you came along and rescued him, the poor sod.”

“What?” Jaskier said again, perplexed but not in the sense that he didn’t understand what she was trying to impart on him but more so that he hadn’t thought it was possible for someone to want to impart such a thing. The woman was mad. Now, Jaskier knew that not all had refined tastes when it came to aesthetics and not all had- “Shit!”

“Fuck, shit, fuck,” he said, each swear punctuating the swap between his hands as he shuffled Raróg from side to side like a particularly large and heavy hot potato. Not appreciating the heavy handling, it lept - or perhaps it was more apt to describe the movement as ‘falling, but with intention’ - onto his knee and squawked angrily at Agatha once or twice before his trousers were set alight.

Jaskier, for lack of a more suiting descriptor, screamed like a fair lady who had found not only a frog in her bed but also a family of toads and all of their warty friends, and then had his scream cut short after no more than two seconds - thank the Gods - when he suddenly found himself soaked and the fear was replaced with shock. Blinking water out of his eyes, he gently lowered his arms that had been waving mid frenzy before he froze, and he licked his lips to discover that it wasn’t water that he had been drenched in, but ale. 

“Them damn mages,” a gruff voice said from a table somewhere to the left of him and received a few enthusiastic agreements. The ambient chatter, which he hadn’t noticed leaving, returned and someone pressed a towel to his shoulder and gave him a pat before moving on.

“You alright?” Agatha said, one hand holding the tankard she’d been cleaning and the other holding Jaskier’s drink. Which was now empty. Ah. “Arnold says a mage turned up shortly after that Nilfgaardian one mucked up, he’s one of ours which should mean that we don’t have to worry about him, but you know how mages are, they see us town folk and think they can play whatever little tricks they like for their own entertainment,” she huffed and refilled his recently depleted ale. The thud of the tankard hitting the sticky counter lead into her next disdainful comment like the initial drumbeat of a more dramatic orchestral piece, “one of these days they’ll get their egos knocked on their heads, I’m telling you.”

Phantom lilac and gooseberry perfume faintly brushed against his nose before disappearing, as bitter as the memory, “that’d be the day,” he muttered and wiped his face with the towel. Mages, huh? That was much better than explaining the true nature of the bird in his… lap. Oh. Raróg wasn’t on his lap. Raróg was in a puddle beneath his stool.

“You poor thing,” he stuttered as he gently took it in his hands and brought it close to his chest. His heart fluttered as his eyes searched for a sign that Raróg was okay and only slowed slightly when he eyed the small rise and fall of its breast. Since the knee of his trouser leg had been seared and oh wow, he hadn’t been burned, that was lucky, he didn’t feel too bad about the improvisational avant-garde fashion statement he made by tearing the cloth completely at the halfway point.

“Oh, I didn’t think, I just saw the fire and well…” Agatha said and she did seem sorry, but not sorrowful, the apology was brought about because of Jaskier’s obvious distress and not Raróg’s condition. She said something else, something about the hearth and settling down, but his mind was working while he gingerly wrapped Raróg with his former trouser leg, dabbing at its little spindly feathers and damp skin.

“You said something about a mage?” He murmured, brows crossed, tucking the last end of the cloth so that Raróg was securely cocooned in a tragically expensive blanket.

“Yes, Arnold reckons he probably came because of the magic that happened in the cave, spikes or something, all I know is that big things like that tend to draw those people in, it’s how they find new students and that,” Agatha answered and Jaskier didn’t bother responding, leaving the conversation for the hearth and the warmth of the fire that crackled behind the low grate.

As soon as a modicum of warmth reached them, Raróg began to wriggle and Jaskier crouched and brought it as close to the flames as he could without losing his skin to the heat. Apparently, the near scalding of his hands wasn’t enough and the bird, in a surprising feat of athleticism considering how securely Jaskier had bound it, rolled out of Jaskier’s grasp and fell into the heart of the fire.

Normally, this would greatly concern Jaskier as it had appeared that this little baby bird that he’d witnessed the birth of half a day or so ago had just jumped to its death and taken a quarter of Jaskier’s trousers with it. For a moment, he did think of this, and his hands became impossibly sweatier, until he remembered that Raróg had made a point of bursting into flames on what worryingly was becoming the regular. The loss of the fabric still stung though.

The fire spat and threw a small hissy fit and Jaskier nearly threw his head from his neck as he checked that no one was watching. Yellow, red and orange came together and the flames bowed as a sooty black ball rolled from the charred wood logs and hit the grate with a muted thud. Languidly unfurling, the ball resolved itself to be Raróg except significantly more charred and a little smaller than it had been before. Following a couple of lazy chirps, it got up and then fell against the grate, hopping slightly as though the elevation of a stack of precisely three coins was going to get Raróg over the two finger high obstacle.

_Hot, hot, hot!_ Was all Jaskier could think as he rescued Raróg from its impromptu imprisonment and brought the demonic bundle to eye level.

“We,” he began, pointing at Raróg with his other hand, “are getting you as far away from civilization as possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 This is... this is jazz hands. But fantasy medieval don't have jazz my dudes. Could I have just not done jazz hands? Described it differently? Yes but I wanted jazz hands. Jas would totally jazz hands unironically. Jaskier the Jazzer. 
> 
> Also, here's a cool ref pic I found for rara's appearance: [link](https://www.deviantart.com/picoloro123/art/Baby-phoenix-arising-from-its-ashes-379995921) and here's a video of what rara sounds like rn ([video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSt_gdjwmvY)). Personally (personally, just my opinion, I respect you guys if you differ ofc ofc) I'm with Agatha on this one but Jas is the narrator here. 
> 
> Shout out to the wonderful comments you guys gave me!!!!! Wonderful response, love y'all <3 thank you for giving me some of your time
> 
> Here's my new tumblr that is now my main tumblr which is so much easier now. It is mostly about my fics and whats going on with sprinklings of writing and fandom content (and the odd bit of nattering from me): [@colerate](https://colerate.tumblr.com/)


	3. Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It shouldn't be Jaskier's job to deal with the bite-sized apocalypse that was Raróg. But he can't just pass it off to any old townsman either. 
> 
> There was a process for these things. You write up a note, find a tavern's notice board, and promise a reward. 
> 
> Jaskier had very recently been relieved of almost all of his worldly possessions. He had nothing to reward. So he'd have to post-pone the whole job advertisement business for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from my sort of unannounced hiatus (I think I said something on tumblr about being busy?) but not really back. Life is... weird right now. Not to be cryptic but that's the best way I can describe it haha.
> 
> I've put a **chapter warning** in the end notes, it's not something that warrants one of the big archive warnings but it's still pretty catastrophic. If theres anything I dont warn for or you think needs a tag, lmk so I can fix it.

Staring wide-eyed at the burnt husk of a once lively and admittedly intimidating mother bird, Jaskier was hit with the realisation that perhaps his and Raróg’s arrangement was of a more permanent nature than he had initially assumed.

Mere moments before he’d found himself gaping at the now quiet nest, straddling the thick branch it was nestled in the crook of, he’d been attempting to pass off his newfound charge into more capable hands. Or talons, rather.

The plan had been simple and Jaskier had not foreseen such a spectacular failure when it had popped into his head as the chirping of hungry chicks drifted down from the sparse canopy of trees to the left of him.

After he had taken his swift leave from the tavern, he’d followed the forest path in accordance to the directions of a passing traveller just entering the little town who had been happy to point back to where he had come from. Jaskier only stuck around long enough to hear the words ‘market’ and ‘inn’ before he hastily jogged down the path, Raróg a hot talisman in the hollow between the jacket a passerby had thrown him on his way out and the rags of his old clothes, just daring Jaskier to prolong his stay so that the demon bird could wreak even more havoc.

It was his duty to the continued good of the world to remove the chattering fire hazard from the flammable townhouses and townspeople but Jaskier wouldn’t go so far as to say that the demon was his responsibility past the immediate danger it posed. After all, Jaskier hadn’t been the one to make all of those evil preparations for the evil ritual and bring about the evil demon. He’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a lifelong curse that seemed to plague him no matter what he did or where he went, witcher present or no.

Thus, there was nothing for him to do about the little blight and the possible coming of the end times it may or may not be destined to bring into fruition. Not that Jaskier should have been expected to do anything about it - he was a bard and this job had ‘witcher’ written all over it.

Perhaps he ought to at least set up a notice in the next town over and offer some gold for an actual witcher to come along and solve the problem. But that increased the risk of Jaskier coming into contact with Geralt which was a possibility that he was doing his best to minimise. He’d sooner clap along to a Valdo Marx verse than trip into that bear trap.

Only a verse though, and it would have to be sung by a bard of little notoriety, not the real deal. There were several distasteful things Jaskier was willing to indulge in over a confrontation with Geralt but sitting through an actual performance of that man’s bastardisation of poetry and abuse of strings tipped the scales into Geralt’s favour by a close but obvious margin.

Besides, he didn’t have the coin to hire a witcher either way. He could offer his virtue, but that had been long since sullied and his reputation would dash any chances he had of fooling anyone.

What even was Valdo doing these days? Last Jaskier had heard, the man had belonged to the Cintran Court which didn’t exist anymore. It wasn’t entirely outside of the realm of possibility that Valdo was dead, come to think of it, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was supposed to jump in joy at that or bitterly grumble about how they’d not had the chance to settle once and for all which of the two of them was the better bard. Jaskier, obviously, but Valdo would have persisted he was the better until he had been bested and they hadn’t gone head to head since their academy days.

Regardless, the fact of the matter was that Raróg was not his problem. He was ill-equipped to deal with it and he didn’t know how/didn’t want to contact anyone who was equipped. So he’d spotted the mother bird and her baby chicks and tried to handle the logistics of the adoption for her and place Raróg in the nest alongside the babies.

He had not anticipated that the mother bird might take offence to Raróg’s intrusion, pick a futile fight and die the moment Raróg met the indignant chirping with a flash of flames. He probably should have, though, as was the trend when it came to Raróg. It threw fire at its problems. And everything in general.

Scooping up the ashy little ball of demon, he sighed and then slipped into his lecture voice, something he hadn’t used since his jaunt in professorship at Oxenfurt, “that was extremely rude,” he began, “you can’t just burn people because you don’t like them.”

Jaskier sucked in a cheek as he wondered which was the bigger sin: the clear hypocrisy in his teachings or the fact that he was trying to teach a demon to shed its demonic ways. One might suggest that leading a creature of evil from its diabolical path would be considered a good deed in the eyes of the Gods yet Jaskier knew better. Things in the world seemed to like their balances, evil was supposed to be evil and good was supposed to be good.

Meletele knew Jaskier had tried to shift that balance and look where it had gotten him - dressed in rags, sat in a tree and lecturing a bird. Not quite the dignified image of a wayward lordling that he liked to throw about and play with, no, he shared more visual similarities with an insane homeless peasant who’d been kicked out of town and succumbed to the ‘spirits of the forest’. ‘Away with the fairies’, even.

Apparently, he was doing something right at least, as Raróg seemed a little cowed. Its head had drooped a little, beak nestling into its chest like it did when it slept but Jaskier suspected it was self-soothing.

That begged the question of whether or not the bird could understand the human language or if it just understood his tone of voice. Either possibility was quite fascinating and also a little worrying. Add intelligence to strength and you have a formidable force. Give that force some direction and motivation… well, he hoped he was on the right side of whatever war Raróg eventually planned on waging.

“Enough of that now,” he huffed, flicking Raróg’s beak lightly, “you’re Raróg, right? The awesome and oh so terrible demon? it’s unbecoming of you to wallow in pity like that.”

As if to confirm his theory of understanding, Raróg looked up almost gingerly before snapping out of its dejection with a proud chirp. Oh dear.

Well, if Jaskier knew how to do anything at all, it was to make the most of an ill-suited situation. Need to appease father while also escaping his grasp? Study at Oxenfurt. Need to earn money and find lodging after said father disowns him for sullying the family name and honour? Tutor at Oxenfurt. Fall prey to the machinations of Valdo Marx’s rumour mill and gravely offend his employers? Become a travelling bard.

Almost die after his debut as a travelling bard, saved only by the kind words of a witcher?

That’s a business opportunity, grasp it. Follow him around. Ignore his callous words. See the hidden meanings in the quiet moments. Pay no attention to the small voice in the back of his head declaring that this isn’t a money-minded scheme and that he’s neglecting his feelings.

Get ditched by the witcher? Uh, whatever this was, right now.

Regardless of the execution of his methods thus far, it was a way of life that had kept him alive and he saw no reason why it wouldn’t prolong his existence just a little bit further until he could rest by the ocean, a fitting song about the completion of life on his lips, trustworthy lute in hand, and bring his story to an unremarkable but satisfying conclusion.

Raróg and dead birds included, he took the nest from the branch and awkwardly made his way down from the tree and onto the ground. Raróg’s impeccable sense of balance ensured its body was always attuned to the shaky motions of Jaskier’s arm, its head moving in isolation to its body, not unlike the chickens he chased in his youth.

Once back on the ground, he tipped the contents of the nest gently onto the dirt - much to the squawking indignation of Raróg - and began to construct the makings of a fire with the sticks. This part of camping was possibly his least favourite, aside from the whole complete lack of comfort, exposure to the elements, risk of bandits and monsters etcetera etcetera. The rest was a given, but the addition of a fire to cook his food and provide warmth was a bonus that relied on his temperamental ability to create a spark.

And lots and lots of whittling.

Curious, Raróg hopped over to examine the point where Jaskier’s stick spun into a sturdier stick. “Back,” Jaskier said but it appeared that Raróg wasn’t interested in following verbal commands and Jaskier’s hands were occupied. “Back,” he said more forcefully to no effect.

Raróg pecked at the mobile stick and reared back with a small cry as it batted its beak, “oh you stupid bloody- oh,” Jaskier began to admonish as the bird threw a small tantrum, rallying to attack the stick with _fire_.

Jaskier dropped the stick just as flames ate up the length of the thing and threatened to lick his palms. As the fallen stick made contact with the little tent of tinder, the construction caught the heat and Jaskier had a merry fire going in a fraction of the time it would have taken him to make it through normal means. It appeared he no longer needed to lament his lack of a Witcher each time he wanted to cook something in the wild as Raróg put the good old igni sign to shame.

“Yes!” He clapped, quick and snappy, and petted Raróg’s head. In return, Raróg joined his celebrations with a proud trill, although Jaskier somehow got the impression that it didn’t know the cause for celebration and just wanted to be included.

Shrugging, he set about building camp around the fire, making the most of nature’s resources since he only had a lute to his name and no bedroll, and cut up the pre-cooked (burnt really but beggars and choosers and the like) family of birds.

The night was still cold and uncomfortable, the side of him that was turned away from the fire thoroughly feeling the chill of the dark forest, but Raróg made for a damn near replica of a furnace where it curled up between his chest and shirt.

* * *

“There’s something about this bird that I think you should know,” the bird keeper said gravely. Perhaps ‘bird keeper’ was pushing it a little too far, Jaskier had stumbled into the nearest village, acquired ale with the promise of music in the tavern, and accidentally drawn a man into conversation by virtue of having a chirping bird sticking its head between the buttons on his clothes. Jaskier was too tired to fend off the man’s fascination and with a stern _‘be good’_ he had let him handle Raróg.

For the most part, Raróg was behaving - in other words, no one was sporting oozing burns - although it did look longingly at Jaskier with sad wide eyes. Damn demon was upset it couldn’t leech off of Jaskier body heat or something, he reasoned, despite the bird’s incredibly hot body temperature.

“Oh, do tell,” Jaskier said, swiping his finger round and round the rim of his tankard. Once the crowd became a little denser, he’d start performing, he promised. To whom, he didn’t know, because it sure as hell wasn’t himself since he would quite like to collapse into unconsciousness, whether it be a bed or a barn floor he collapsed onto he wasn’t bothered.

“It has no means of reproduction, a tragedy, I know, such a… unique, thing unable to create more unique things...” the man cooed with a pity pet and Raróg squawked indignantly.

“By Meletele you-” Jaskier grabbed Raróg from the man’s hands and leant away from him, Raróg chirping in agreement, “what are you doing searching through my bird’s _private affairs_ like that, you wouldn’t like it if I pulled down your trousers to identify your shrimp cock in public, would you! Dear lord.” Raróg spat a little soot indignantly to garnish Jaskier’s defence - good demon! Yes, a none fiery outlet for its displeasure! Fire adjacent still and not at all regular avian behaviour but progress had been made - and jumped into Jaskier’s outstretched arms.

“Now, if you don’t mind me, I have a duty to the lovely owner of his establishment and many songs to perform, tarah!” He stood up and gave a flappy wave with his unoccupied hand, supporting Raróg with the crook of his elbow, and strutted towards the end of the tavern clear of furniture. The fireplace was upsettingly close to his designated spot but he supposed it would keep Raróg happy.

Whether Raróg expressed his happiness with reckless abandon or calm contentment was another issue. One which he would not be addressing until he absolutely needed to.

By virtue or pittance from the Gods, Jaskier could never tell these days, Raróg was happy to perch on his shoulder while he played. His presence was both beneficial and detrimental, and not because of the ever-present looming threat of its demonic plans to destroy half the continent, but because it both attracted more interest from the crowd and also accelerated the rate in which Jaskier sweat from his upper back and neck.

The evening was blissfully free of any devilish antics. With sweaty hands, Jaskier took his room key from the innkeeper and collapsed into the straw bed upstairs.

Forgetting the demon on his shoulder. Fuck.

Straw, as he already knew but became painfully aware in the panicked flailing that followed, was very flammable. Perfect tinder for fire deities to initiate a village-wide fire with, which his mind provided vivid illustrations of as the flames licked the floor surrounding the bed.

In Raróg’s defence, Jaskier thought in a moment of stillness in which he watched the orange spread and consume in detached horror, it had nearly crushed its talons beneath Jaskier’s shoulder. Then the horror securely adhered itself to Jaskier and he screamed at the roof, the fire, and the bird, in turn, and all at once.

“Put it out, put it out!” He grabbed Raróg and then immediately dropped it when the heat threatened to burn his fingers. Water. He needed water.

He barged through the room’s door, nearly through someone down the stairs who’d probably come to investigate the shouting, and exploded into the tavern. Several customers gave him looks ranging from annoyed to shocked and he breathed heavily into the silence he created.

“There’s a, ah,” it was like he’d been doused in snow after spending hours boiling in the desert sand, the contrast of the atmospheres split by the door leading to the stairs was jarring. “You know, ah, hot and deadly, orange, sometimes it's your saviour in the deathly chill of the forest, your knight in shining armour when warding away monsters, and sometimes it destroys your bed and blackens your floor-”

A great groan emanated from above them. Crack. Crack. Crack. Bright light drew jagged lines across the ceiling.

Several panels of wood fell onto the bar, black and singed. Slowly, every occupant of the tavern wandered towards the opening, their faces highlighted in yellow flickers. It was quite the tableaux.

“FIRE!” The man Jaskier had pushed down the stairs burst into the room, a fat purple bruise developing over his eye. “FIRE!” He shouted again, waving his hands in emphasis when no one moved, all locked in shock, waiting for the information to process.

Then, everything moved. The people screamed, the tavern screamed, as more of the ceiling fell through and hell made its home above ground. Bottle-necked, they surged for the exit, trampling on each other to leave. Jaskier didn’t bother with the door and threw himself through the window instead.

Landing in a painful heap, he scrambled backwards until he could launch himself to his feet, eyes wide as he tracked the fire’s path from the tavern to the roof of the apothecary and from there to the general store and-

Did fire always travel that fast?

Pulling himself away from the horrifying lure, he sprinted towards the well and dove headfirst. Water flushed into his nostrils and mouth, cold pooling in his stomach and he coughed, gasping for air and receiving none. Limbs thrashing, he struggled to breach the surface until his fingers brushed against rope and he hauled himself up until smoke kissed his lips.

He heaved his elbows over the rim of the well and violently expelled the water drowning him from the inside. For a while, he did nothing but cough and gulp, the rushing in his ears blocking out everything else. Strong shivers wracked his body uncontrollably and his fingers felt strange, unfeeling yet not.

Roughly wiping the water from his eyes with jerky movements, he took in his surroundings, and immediately closed his eyes to the light.

The fire was all-consuming.

He knew the well was situated at the village centre and was surrounded by a circlet of densely packed two-storey buildings. Now, none of the original arrangement was clear, a ring of fire had taken their place. Figures darted between the orange and yellows, chaotic and driven by fear and only fear.

A thud from behind had Jaskier spinning his head around, delayed in his reaction, to see a blackened hand flexing over the rim of the well and going limp before sliding back behind the wall. He didn’t dare move, frozen in place by a cold he couldn’t feel and wouldn’t be thawed by the imprisoning heat beyond. But he knew what he would find if he looked over the rim of the well.

His head spun again as an audible strike of magic lit up his senses like a beacon, and the wall of fire parted directly ahead of him.

A mage had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: there is a massive village fire. Somebody dies very close to jas but he doesn't see more than his hand. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, sorry for the wait. Usually, I'd plug my tumblr here but I uninstalled all social media and I don't know when/if I'll reinstall. So. Yeeeeeeee.
> 
> Thanks for the support x
> 
> Edit: ahahahahahahagggggg for some reason google drive didnt save the edits I made at midday. Ah well. It was minor stuff like taking out the unnecessary uses of "that" and breaking up the paragraphs etc. I'll fix it later.


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